The Fall, and Subsequent Catch
by bowties-and-baskerville
Summary: A Wholock Reichenbach. Will eventually be fluff, with a lemony side story. The Doctor helps Sherlock survive and shows him how much John needs him.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock and Doctor Who crossover  
Possibly some Johnlock fluff later if I decide to include any  
What do you think?

DISCLAIMER: I don't own any material, just my brain. Please don't steal my thoughts. They're not copyrighted (If they were and you copied I'd sue!)

* * *

The T.A.R.D.I.S materialized quietly on the London rooftop (The Doctor had finally learned how to fly her properly), disturbing no part of the scene that was unfolding below. The Doctor stepped out, walking over to the edge and looking down. A man climbed frantically out of a black Taxi, hurriedly paying the driver and rushing across the road. He slowed midway to answer his phone, and although he could not hear the conversation, the Doctor knew that it was something distressing. The man stopped suddenly and walked back a short distance before turning once more, searching the skyline. The Doctor followed his gaze, to the roof opposite where he was standing.

The roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital was a little lower than his own. The Doctor frowned; a man lay on the cold stone, a pool of dark liquid slowing spreading out around his head, whilst another stood, close to the edge, one hand reaching out to the man below, the other pressing a mobile phone to his ear, his long coat and scarf billowing out around him in the breeze. "I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you," he sobbed gently; "It's a trick. Just a magic trick." The Doctor's brow furrowed once more as he realised who the man was. It was simple really, he should have realised before. This was Sherlock Holmes, the great detective.

"Hmm, twenty-twelve. London host the Olympic Games and I carry the torch, good year. January or February though, so…" His quiet monologue trailed off as he heard Sherlock speak again.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please! Will you do that, for me? This phone call, it's um… it's my note. It's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note?" His voice had calmed again; he was readying himself for something. What though, the Doctor didn't yet know for sure. "Goodbye John."

Now the Doctor knew. He turned and stepped back inside his T.A.R.D.I.S, unwilling to witness the rest.

But wait.

Sherlock Holmes couldn't die today! A thoughtful smile crept across his face, and as he turned to close the door behind him he paused and looked back, watching the detective drop his phone onto the roof behind him and spread his arms wide.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes sat quietly on the floor, leaning back against the cupboard door. In his hand was a small rubber ball in constant motion, being spun and bounced and thrown and caught. He smiled as the door opened, squeaking slightly on its over-used hinges. "I knew you'd be here."

"Oh so we've met then," The Doctor muttered under his breath before adding, in a louder voice, " No you didn't. You couldn't possibly have known. I only decide to come in ten minutes myself!"

"Of course I did! Today's important." Sherlock scorned indignantly.

"Yes, about that. You can't die. Not today"

"It's as good a day as any. You should know by now that everybody dies." Sherlock's voice had hardened, his tone turning flinty.

"I passed John in the hallway," the Doctor rapidly changed the subject, "I always knew you'd acquire a… companion, but somehow I didn't think he'd be as good as John. He's a keeper for sure."

"Mm… He is rather, isn't he," The Doctor smiled at this, causing Sherlock to scowl again, "But you wouldn't interrupt your 'Adventures' just for a social call and to scoff at me. Don't act so bloody casual. Why are you here?"

"To save your life."

* * *

John didn't stop thinking throughout the entire cab journey back to 221B. His mind raced, splitting itself between images of Mrs Hudson lying in a hospital bed, blood pulsing out of a bullet wound, and Sherlock, sitting in the chair, just where John had left him, his expression blank, as thoughtful as ever. He took a moment to smile at the thought of his flatmate, then his frown returned as the cab stopped outside 221B. There were no police cars and no ambulances, and as John put one hand on the door to push it open he could hear Mrs Hudson's voice echoing gently through the hallway. The frown deepened.  
"Mrs Hudson?"

"Oh hello dear. Has Sherlock sorted everything out with the police then?"

John span around and hurried out the door, clambering back into the taxi, frantically giving directions, his mind once again turning to Sherlock in the lab.

* * *

Sherlock frowned, "So this wrist-strap lets you travel through time and space. Doctor, I know about the TARDIS. Hell, I even know how the damn thing works, but a teleport device in a bracelet? How is this going to save my life?"

* * *

**Oooh SPOILERS! new chapter methinks...xx**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The Doctor left the hospital just as John's taxi pulled up outside. He stepped into the doorway of the nearest building. He couldn't see Sherlock from where he was standing, but he knew exactly what was happening. He saw Sherlock hit the pavement, saw John get knocked over, saw Sherlock's body being wheeled into the hospital and John collapse, sobbing, on the street. He looked up to the rooftop to check that he'd gone and hurried over to John.

"John," He touched the soldier on the shoulder, trying to get his attention, "John, we need to get you home, come on." John took the Doctor's arm, squeezing it tightly.

It took until the paramedics had cleaned all the bloodstains off the pavement for the Doctor to guide John back into the cab.

* * *

By the time they arrived back at the flat John's sobs had to silence, his disbelief and refusal burning in his stare. The gentle, calming gaze of the Doctor'sdeep brown eyes had long since dissolved into darkness, warning Mrs Hudson away from questions until she'd helped him upstairs, sat him down, and put the kettle on.

* * *

It was Greg who broke the news in the end. The Doctor had made his introductions, then his excuses, and had hurried of somewhere, leaving the flat just as Lestrade's entire division showed up with their flashing lights and sirens, all of them worrying whether the terrible rumours could possibly be true.

* * *

Molly had phoned Greg the minute she knew, asking him gently if he would come and identify the body. He'd wanted to refuse, to just go home and calm himself, but he knew his duty and, taking one of the police cars, had left. John, he'd been told, was too distraught to go back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

* * *

The Doctor stepped outside, greeted by a wail of sirens and screeches of tyres.  
"Just what John needs." He muttered sarcastically. Nodding politely at the nearest policemen, he wandered off in the general direction of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

* * *

When John had finally managed to calm down (about an hour and a half after the Doctor had left) he wanted to go back. He wanted to leave the flat with all its memories and go to the hospital roof. He just wanted to sit there.  
Of course, he didn't tell Mrs Hudson this.

"I..." he paused, still calming himself down, "I need some air."

"Certainly dear. Do you want me to go with you?" came her reply.

And there it was. The first indication of everyone else's thoughts and feelings.  
'Is John going to do something stupid?'  
By that, of course, they meant suicide. And Sherlock thought _he_was an idiot! It had been written in all their faces from the very beginning. Their shocked, worried, tear-streaked faces, every fucking one of them! They were the stupid ones.

No. He wouldn't kill himself. He'd make sure that all of James Moriarty's men were dealt with once and for all.

"No, I'll be okay." He said, returning to reality. His reply earned him a host of disbelieving glances from nearly everyone in the room. He ignored them all, focusing on Greg, the only one in the room who's opinion really meant something, other than Mrs Hudson of course. The DI shrugged and nodded once, gave John a quick pat on the shoulder and went to get his jacket.

"Text me if you need anything."

* * *

Greg Lestrade was headed, once more, to the hospital. He knew John would probably follow sooner or later, but he went nonetheless.

He met the Doctor at the doors, shaking his hand and leading the way into the lift. Neither of them spoke, and the silence was tense. They both sighed with relief when the lift slowed to a halt and the door opened into the morgue.  
Molly was there to meet them, smiling sadly at Greg before turning around and walking back the way she'd come, through two sets of double doors and down a long white corridor. They stopped in front of one of the doors labelled 'Private'. Molly pulled a small key out of the pocket of her lab coat and unlocking the door.  
The Doctor raised an eyebrow, wondering why the door needed to be locked - Sherlock's body obviously wasn't just going to wander off.

He was smarter than that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**This one took a while to write but it ends really well. CLIFFHANGER!**

**I've started Chapter 5 so don't worry :) sorry it's taken sooooooooooo long**

* * *

Hearing the slot into the lock and begin to turn finally made Sherlock sit up. He'd been lying on his back on the hard single bed they'd given him from one of the smaller wards of the hospital. It wasn't overly uncomfortable, but he was used to the soft, well-sprung mattress he'd moved from the Holmes manor into 221B.  
John had sat down on it once and almost refused to get up again...  
John.

Molly knocked before pushing the door open. There had been far too many times she'd walked into a room to find Sherlock examining a naked corpse, poking nerves and slicing tendons, and he didn't seem to care where those tendons were. She'd talked to him about it once or twice, and he'd reluctantly agreed to cover any 'privates' if she knocked first. The poor man had been utterly perplexed as to why, but he'd complied nonetheless.

Sherlock smiled as the Doctor and Greg entered his room. It was good to see some familiar faces.  
"Doctor, Greg. How's John?"  
Neither of the men knew quite how to answer that. They stood in silence for a few (agonizingly long) seconds, before replying simultaneously.  
"Better than expected." (That was Greg.)  
"In shock, obviously." (The Doctor.)  
Sherlock's face somehow managed to look like he was about to burst into tears and pleased at the same time. He settled on the latter, composing his features as best he could in the circumstances. He _had _just died.

* * *

They talked for about two hours, exchanging thoughts and information that would help keep Sherlock to stay hidden. The only real problem was John. The plans were centering around him, crisscrossing tendrils of plots and ideas, orbiting the life of John Hamish Watson. And Sherlock Holmes had no clue how to protect him.

* * *

The Doctor stood beside John, clad in a smart black pinstripe suit underneath his trademark brown trench-coat, which he'd refused to change, despite Greg's protests.  
John himself was wearing much the same, minus the coat - he's stuck with his dark brown leather one.  
The six foot deep hole in front of them was being gradually filled back up with the damp earth. As the last shovel-full of soil landed, John turned to the Doctor.  
"Please, would you...?" he asked hesitantly.  
The Doctor nodded his understanding before turning away, patting the old soldier on the shoulder reassuringly.  
"I'll meet you back at the flat then."

As soon as John knew he was alone a tear rolled down his cheek. It was the first time he'd cried after the fall, and two long, empty weeks had passed since then. The flat was growing ever neater and more organised, the books on bookshelves, the table cleared of clutter, and John had finally found the TV remote, wedged firmly between two floorboards. He couldn't imagine how it'd got there in the the first place, but he knew it was his flatmates fault.  
Emotion overtook him and his knees buckled. He lowered himself onto the ground, leaning against the cold black stone and drawing up his legs.  
He must have sat there for at least an hour, telling 'Sherlock' everything that had happened those past few weeks - how he hadn't gone back to the hospital that day after all, that he'd just walked around London. He told him how little Greg Lestrade trusted him and how painfully obvious t was, and how he'd had an undercover policeman following him around London, everywhere he went, n case he did 'anything stupid'. But the most important thing Doctor John Hamish Watson said was how much he needed Sherlock back in his life. He told him that his limp was returning, as were the nightmares, that he couldn't leave the flat, but it was far too painful to be anywhere else, that he knew he needed food, but everything he ate slowed him down and made him feel sick, so much so that he was losing weight fast, his ribs and cheekbones more prominent than ever now, and, finally, in a hushed voice, John Watson told Sherlock Holmes about the drugs.


End file.
